Brick
by sinemoras09
Summary: Sylar vs. Claude. Oneshot. Gen-fic, AU. Takes place after Landslide.


"I can hear you," Sylar says.

"I bet you can," Claude says, and the beam comes out from nowhere and smashes into Sylar's face.

Claude throws his coat over Sylar's head and tackles him to the ground.

"That's the tricky thing about invisibility," Claude says. "You never know what the other guy's got on him." Sylar struggles but Claude is stronger. "See friend, I know how things work too," Claude says. "For instance, I know that telekinetics can't use their ability if they can't see what they're manipulating."

Sylar grunts. Claude tightens his grip around him.

"You're a scrawny little thing, aren't you?" Claude says. "Frankly, I'm disappointed. I would have thought someone like you would have a little more weight on them."

"You don't know who you're dealing with," Sylar says.

"Actually, I do," Claude says. "You're that pissant clockmaker scaring all my friends. I'd kill you right now, but I promised an old friend of mine I'd keep you alive." And before Sylar can react, Claude smashes his head against the concrete floor.

Claude pulls his coat off of Sylar's face. He doesn't want the little wanker bleeding all over his coat.

.

Claude props his feet up and watches him, silently. Sylar is slumped over in the chair, the black blindfold around his eyes. For all his powers, Sylar is for once completely prostrate. All it took was a brick to the hand for Sylar to fess up and enumerate his abilities: the telekinesis, which Claude expertly mitigated with the blindfold; the hearing, which Claude undercut by dragging him into the abandoned subway station across the street (the echoing would make it more difficult to pinpoint sound); the molecular manipulation—melting things—he avoided by wrapping Sylar's wrists with wet cloth before handcuffing him; the cloth, by the way, was doused with antifreeze, rendering both the cryokinesis and the pyrokinesis completely useless, the former for obvious reasons, and the latter…well, antifreeze is flammable, and Claude knows Sylar wouldn't want to accidentally burn himself. Lord knows the crush injuries to his fingers were painful enough.

"See mate, I've been around," Claude said, yanking the nylon cords around Sylar's neck. "I've been bagging specials since before you were born."

And the super-memory? The precognition? Well, Claude doesn't really care about those, it isn't like Sylar could paint himself a pretty picture and escape.

Now Claude watches him closely, taking care to remain invisible even with all the precautions in place. He also tells himself not to say anything--with the trains passing back and forth, it's noisy enough to obscure his breathing and his heartbeat, but if he opens his mouth, he knows he risks getting telekinetically bitch-slapped.

Even so, Claude can't ignore him for much longer. The little pisser just won't shut up.

"So this is it?" Sylar says. Even with the blindfold—even when he's invisible—Sylar seems to stare straight at him, and that makes Claude itch uncomfortably. "This is how you're getting back into their good graces. Hunting one of your own. Rather ironic, isn't it?"

"See now, I'm going to do my nut if you keep talking, I'm trying to bloody concentrate," Claude says.

"On what?" Sylar asks. "Keeping me in check? I thought that wouldn't be such a big task, seeing as you've been 'bagging specials' since before I was born. Or maybe I'm just more special than all of them?"

"You're fucking crackers, is what," Claude says. "And you'd better shut up too, or else I'll smash your other hand in."

Sylar slumps over again. That seemed to do it.

Claude drums his fingers on his knee impatiently. Where the hell was Bennet? He glances over his shoulder. Sylar doesn't look all that threatening now--in fact, he looks kind of like one of those annoying emo kids with the faux hawk and the head-to-toe black. Frankly, it looks ridiculous--even moreso with the blindfold tied unceremoniously around his eyes. And with the bungee cords tied around his neck and legs, Claude can see just how _thin_ Sylar really is, narrow shoulders and even narrower legs, almost skeletal. He's all long limbs and awkward angles, and for a moment, Claude feels almost sorry for him.

It only lasts a moment, though.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway?" Claude asks. "Your mum didn't love you enough? Can't get your jollies without slicing someone else's head open?"

"Great men strive to better themselves, something you probably wouldn't know about," Sylar says. He cocks his head slightly, the blindfold starting to slip. "I wonder what it must be like, hiding behind your invisibility. I wonder what it is you're afraid of."

"You wank like a virgin, anybody ever tell you that?" Claude asks, irritated. "Because you've been talking nonstop for almost an hour, and quite frankly it's starting to give me a headache."

Sylar doesn't answer.

"Wait--don't tell me I've hit a sore spot!" Claude says. "You really _are_ a virgin, aren't you? Christ, no wonder you're so fucked up--you never got your rocks off! And it's no surprise, either. You're no Lancelot, if you catch my drift."

"I can hear you," Sylar says, quietly.

"Of course you can hear me, I'm bloody talking to you," Claude says.

Sylar grins, the pale skin of his lower face jutting out from under the blindfold...

...and then Claude is airborne, slamming against the wall and whacking his shoulder with a thud. Chunks of concrete crumble around him.

"You were right, telekinetics can't use their power unless they know where their target is," Sylar says. "Of course, I don't have to _see_ you to know where you are."

And then Sylar's hands begin to glow. Claude's eyes widen as the cloth around his wrists catch flame and blacken in the heat. His gaze switches from Sylar's wrists to Sylar's mouth, which stretches out into a lazy grin. "I thought you would have known better than to talk to me," Sylar says, and the cloth falls to the floor. "But you couldn't resist, could you?" And then the cuffs around his wrists bubble, a metallic goop running down his arms. "Oops," Sylar says, and he pulls off his blindfold. With a flick of his fingers, the nylon cords around his neck and ankles snap off, and now he's standing, blinking and letting his eyes adjust to the dark. "Much better," he says, stretching his neck. "But you do realize I could have escaped any time I wanted to. I just had to be sure you didn't have another brick over my head."

Claude is still invisible. He doesn't make a sound.

Behind him, a sulfur yellow light blinks in the corner, and Sylar walks toward it, examining his hand. It's mangled and bloody, the bruised half-moons of his fingertips painfully swollen. "It's a good thing I'm left-handed," Sylar says. His eyes are flashing. "You're going to pay for that."

Claude scrambles to his feet. The sounds of his footsteps echo down the corridor.

"See, now this is going to be problematic," Sylar says. He stalks around him, tilting his head slightly. "The sound bounces everywhere and you're invisible. Makes for a pretty good cat and mouse, doesn't it?"

Sylar flicks his fingers again and the sprinklers turn on.

Claude throws himself against the wall. He knows if he steps out into the fore, Sylar would see the water bouncing off of him.

Now Sylar spins around, the sound of the water clearly disorienting him. His hair is flat and wet against his forehead and the dark trench coat clings to him heavily, and Claude is smart enough to realize Sylar could shield himself with his telekinesis if he wanted to, but he's not. He's not because he's throwing all of his concentration into his hearing.

Claude gropes for a metal pipe and waits for Sylar to walk by him.

"Where are you, _friend_?" Sylar asks. "You and I were getting along so well, I thought we could continue our little chat!"

Claude swings the metal pipe toward him, but Sylar whirls around and the pipe catches mid-air, bending backward with the force of his mind. The light catches the bouncing water and for one horrifying moment, both are completely still. The pipe snaps and Sylar flings it across the room. Water is everywhere and it's as if Sylar's moving in slow motion, throwing his arm up and aiming a jet of cryokinesis toward him.

Claude ducks but he doesn't move fast enough, suddenly caught in the jet of snow and hail. He cries out, the shock of cold air stinging his skin. He's being iced, frosted over, and even though he's invisible the frost forms over him, a shell of ice piercing through his invisibility.

Sylar steps forward, and the water droplets turn into ice in his path. Claude throws his hands up but the ice keeps coming, cutting into his skin like glass.

"What you said earlier? That really hurt my feelings," Sylar says. He keeps advancing and Claude, blinded by snow, slips on the sheet of ice that Sylar had created just behind him. "But you know what they say. Sticks and stones, and whatnot. Or in this case, one huge concrete _brick._ But that's okay," Sylar says, and he pins Claude down with his mind. "You'll get what's coming to you."

Sylar grins, and the water falls everywhere but around his face, his telekinetic shield once again intact.

"I'm gonna have fun with this," Sylar says.

It's the last thing Claude hears.


End file.
